


Threw our hope into hell

by isquinnabel



Category: Lost
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-19
Updated: 2012-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-10 02:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isquinnabel/pseuds/isquinnabel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Juliet's not even supposed to be here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threw our hope into hell

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Bechdel Test Comment Fic-a-thon](http://penny-lane-42.livejournal.com/244264.html), in response to the prompt " _Lost - Juliet & Kate - maybe you and I are cursed_". Title from [As Cold as it Gets](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q8Cq2kMB7_Y) by Patty Griffin.

She's not even supposed to be here.

She's supposed to be on the sub right now. Unconscious on a narrow bunk, one medicated sleep away from home. Home, actual home. She's _not_ supposed to be cowering among the trees on this godforsaken island, drenched to the skin with an excruciating ache pulsing through her shoulder. Handcuffed to Austen. Obediently doing Ben's bidding, pulling her strings on his behalf. Being a piece in his little game.

She hates it. She hates that she's here and Austen is as good a person as any to blame for it. She shoots a snippy remark about her shoulder, and hardens herself to any sincerity in the apology. _Don't flatter yourself_. When Austen snaps it back into place she screams like she hasn't since... well, recently. Too recently. (The burn is nowhere near healed yet.)

\---

Tree roots and hard-packed dirt are not conducive to sleep. She drifts in and out of vaguely threatening dreams, ones that she can't ever quite remember once her eyes spring open.

Next to her, Austen does the same. She's much worse at hiding it; she gives herself away with sudden starts and gasps.

\---

Nights here feel unnaturally silent. She's never managed to get used to it.  
"Have you slept? At all?" Austen's voice is groggy and irritable. There's too much cloud cover to know for sure, but she guesses it's about three o'clock.  
"Some."  
She can feel her try to shift her weight, but there's a limit to how much either of them can move. It's unbelievably annoying, and it's all Juliet can do to to keep quiet about the keys in her pocket.

She exhales quietly, eyes fixed on the ground. No-one can hate this place like she does. No-one. Not even the plane crash survivors. She tries not to play the numbers game, but they've barely passed the three-month mark. What's three months compared to three years?

Even so, there's a part of her brain – a part that doesn't stick to the cold distance of surname-only policies – that's being ensnared by pangs of sympathy. Austen didn't do this to her. (Her shoulder gives a sudden throb. Okay – Austen did _that_ to her.) Whatever anyone else zealously tries to insist, Austen is only here because of a random attack of bad luck. She didn't choose to come to this island, she didn't ask for any of this.

Kate doesn't want to be here any more than she does.

\---

"What did you mean before?"  
"What?"  
Both voices keep their sullen edge, as though every syllable needs an undertone of _don't for one second think I give a crap about you_.  
"Before. You were pissed about not going home."

She's stopped trying to move. She can't do anything without aggravating her shoulder.

"Not everything is in a secret code," she mutters. "I meant that I'm pissed about not going home."  
"What, you can't just leave?"

It hurts. Everything hurts.

"No." She's not in the mood to elaborate. And even if she was, she can't. She shouldn't. She has a job to do.

"Why the hell not?"  
She rolls her eyes. "Does it matter? We're both screwed, anyway."


End file.
